


I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees

by Susan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Case Fic, M/M, Season/Series 02, Smut, smut with feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 13:01:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10101938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Susan/pseuds/Susan
Summary: Sherlock lays out the facts, finds connections, makes deductions. He’s a brilliant schoolboy in a classroom of idiots. But there are things Sherlock cannot deduce, conclusions he will never draw, murders he will never solve. These are the cases that never make it into the blog, cases like this one. I don’t write them up because they’re bad for business. At least that’s what I tell him.The truth is more complicated.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a poem by Pablo Neruda.  
> Written for Come at Once, Round 7. My prompt was "cherry."  
> Set roughly in Series 2 
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks again and forever to peg22 for reading and cheering and everything else. She knows why.

Anyone who reads my blog knows Sherlock is brilliant. The most insignificant details mark a path that only Sherlock can follow – dust on a man’s shoe, a rare flower that only grows in one narrow lane in all of England, the faint scent of cherry blossoms lingering at a crime scene. A hint of mud on a woman’s calf.    

He lays out the facts, finds connections, makes deductions. He’s a brilliant schoolboy in a classroom of idiots. But there are things Sherlock cannot deduce, conclusions he will never draw, murders he will never solve. These are the cases that never make it into the blog, cases like this one. I don’t write them up because they’re bad for business. At least that’s what I tell him.

The truth is more complicated.

_*****_

**_It starts like this_** – a woman, mid-thirties, attractive in a pleasant, bakes her own bread, environmental warrior sort of way, sits in the chair between Sherlock and me and tells us her story. She hasn’t heard from her sister in a fortnight. _Not like her, she’s never done this before ._. . _blah . . . blah . . . blah_.  Even I have a hard time showing interest. She continues, “We’re not as close as we used to be, but we talk every few days.”

“Boyfriend?” I ask.  

“What does that have to do with – oh, you mean my sister.” Her face reddens. “Not lately, no.”

“Job?” I ask. “Your sister’s,” I add helpfully and Sherlock bites back a smile.

“She calls herself an office manager but I reckon it’s closer to receptionist. Answers the phone, makes appointments, that sort of thing.” She looks at Sherlock hopefully. She clearly expects great things from the small slivers of information she is feeding him. “I spoke to her office and they said she’s on holiday. She’s never gone away without telling me.”

Sherlock blows out a long loud breath. “Tedious,” he mutters. His leg twitches and he picks up his mobile and I know he’s about to text me something rude.

“Can you help me?” she asks, looking at Sherlock. Why does no one ever ask _me_ that? I said that out loud once and Sherlock laughed and proceeded to tell me why in exquisite detail. So for a week after, I refused to do that thing I do with my tongue that he especially likes.  I meant not to do it for two weeks, but it turns out I especially like it too.

The woman sits, hands in her lap, worrying the zipper on her handbag and waits for him to say something. Finally, she retrieves her billfold and counts out five £50 notes. “Is this enough? I can get more.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock says, standing up. He motions at me to take the money.

Sherlock retreats and I collect the rest of her information. Her name (Charlotte Ivan), her sister’s name (Fiona Miller), sister’s mobile number and employer (Shipton Building Society, Holborn). Because it _is_ tedious and I am bored (or perhaps I’ve been working with Sherlock too long), I am careless with her feelings. “Any reason to think she’s thrown herself into the Thames?”

She makes a small sound like a wounded puppy and I am apologetic. “Was she depressed?” I ask, but the damage is done and the woman (now client) wipes at her eyes and shakes her head.

I stand and steer her towards the door, one hand on her back. “We’ll ring you the minute we know anything.”

She nods and glances down the hallway. “The blog makes you out to be the nice one. Bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?”

**_It goes like this_** – Gordon Washburn, Senior Vice-President, Shipton Building Society, is fifty going on retirement. I recognise the type, there were plenty like him in the army, doing the job just enough to get by. Always looking for a shortcut.

Washburn shifts a fuchsia-coloured file from one side of his fake mahogany desk to the other. He’s done that three times now.

“You were saying?” I prompt. “About Fiona Miller?”

He clears his throat, scratches his nose. He can’t stop glaring at Sherlock, who’s wandering around the office examining everything—framed photos and books and even the collection of miniature classic cars lined up on the bookshelf. He doesn’t pick anything up, he just touches each object with his index finger like he’s taking inventory. It’s driving Washburn mad, which I suspect is why Sherlock’s doing it.

I cough and Washburn startles. “Fi’s on holiday,” he says.

“Do you know where?”

Sherlock starts humming and I throw him a dirty look. He ignores me and continues to hum. I think it’s _The Girl from Ipanema._ Or maybe _Tiny Dancer._ I can never tell.

Washburn clears his throat again. “She said Spain, I think. No, Portugal. One of those timeshare places, a friend owned it but couldn’t use it. I can find out from one of the girls if you like.” He shakes his head. “It’s a hen party out there most days.  Fi told me she planned to go off the grid on holiday. No phone or internet, if you can believe it. Who does that now?”  

“Do you know if she went alone?”

He snorts. “Not bloody likely.”

“Has anyone inquired about her absence?”

“Besides you two? Not that I know of.  But it’s not top secret - if anyone asked, we’d say she was away on holiday.”

“When does she get back?” I ask. Sherlock has a hand on the doorknob and makes his escape before Washburn answers.

“To work? Next Monday.” He stands and straightens his tie. “You never said who was looking for her.”

“No.” I extend my hand and we shake half-heartedly. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Washburn.”

He looks at me, eyes narrowed. “You’d think anyone who was close enough to worry about her would know she was on holiday. It’s all she talked about for the past couple months.” He leans in, “Now that the great Sherlock Holmes is on the case, I’m sure you’ll find her soon enough.”  

“Sherlock and I work as a team,” I add stupidly before I walk away.

 

 

We head back to Baker Street. To think, he says.

We both think for a while. I do it on the sofa while eating a ham and cheese sandwich from Speedy’s and he does it while dissecting an eyeball at the kitchen table. 

“Our client’s not Fiona’s sister, is she?” I say when I’m done thinking.

“Very good,” Sherlock says, smiling. He walks to the sofa, leans over in front of me and slowly unfastens the top two buttons of my shirt.

“Charlotte’s her jealous ex-girlfriend,” I continue. “She suspects Fiona’s with someone new . . .”

Sherlock begins doing up the buttons, shaking his head. “Pity. You were off to a promising start.” He starts to stand.

I cup my hand around his neck and pull him back down. “She’s someone who wants to find Fiona but doesn’t want to leave a trail.”

Sherlock nods, unfastens the buttons again, and rolls one of my nipples between two fingers.

“Her name’s not Charlotte, is it?”  

Sherlock bends down and licks my nipple slowly. Then he lifts his head and looks up at me, smiling. He unbuckles my belt. I try to help but he smacks my hand away. I make a sound that sounds like begging.

Sherlock unzips my trousers and slips to his knees between my open legs. “I lifted her fingerprints from the glass of water you thoughtfully offered her. The results came in while you were downstairs.”

“So who is she?”

“Later,” he says, his voice a low growl. I lift my hips and Sherlock pulls my trousers past my hips in one swift motion. The man has many talents.

My head falls back against the sofa as his warm hand finds my cock, tugging it not so gently out of my pants. I close my eyes as his mouth replaces his hand and I whistle in a breath while he focuses all his energy on sending me over the edge.

 

“So, who is she?” I repeat the question half an hour later. He is in his chair, fingers folded, breathing slowly. I bring him a cup of tea and he takes it from me, the ghost of a smile lingering under all the seriousness.

“ _What is she_ is the better question.”

I sit in my chair and prepare for the lecture. “Okay, then, what is she?”

Sherlock takes a long sip of tea, staring at me lecherously over the cup. The lecture won’t last long if he keeps that up and I am about to tell him so, when he sighs and puts his cup down.

“She is obviously a distraction,” he says.

“Obviously.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Do tell, John. You have deduced the true nature of the case?”

“No, but the more I agree with you, the faster you will tell me what’s really going on.”

“How should I know?”

I frown. “But you have her fingerprints – who is she?”

“She is no one.”

“She’s our client.”

“Technically,” he says. “And technically, we did what she paid us –”

 _Oh, now it’s_ us _, is it_?

“—to do. We located Fiona Miller for her. She is lolling about on a beach in Portugal sipping strawberry daiquiris and reading romance novels. Once you inform not-Charlotte of this happy news, we’re done. On to the next case.”

“Bollocks.”

“Yes, of course. Good to know you’re keeping up.” He rubs his hand together, smiling. If he had a moustache, he’d be twirling it. “I expect Lestrade will ring shortly.”

As if on cue, Sherlock’s mobile rings and I reach over and grab it from him. He scowls at me but makes no move to take it back.  
  
“Greg? It’s John.”

“He’s got you answering his phone now? Cheeky bastard. Put me on speaker, I don’t plan on repeating any of this.”

“Go ahead, Giles,” Sherlock says. Inside that intensely fuckable exterior lurks a ten-year-old boy.

“I made a lot of promises to get this for you so remember that next time I need a consult, yeah?”

“Is that what you call it when I solve your cases and you take the credit?” Sherlock asks.

“Oi, shut it or you get shite.”

Sherlock shuts it.

I hear a rustling of papers and Greg takes a breath. “The Shipton Building Society is currently under investigation by the Major Economic Crimes Unit. Has been for almost six months. They suspect someone on the inside is opening accounts for sham corporations and then taking out mortgages in these companies’ names. The scheme generates more than enough cash to cover the monthly interest payments, so no one’s the wiser. They reckon at least ten fake accounts have been created over the past two years. With average mortgages of £200,000, that’s a shitload of exposure for Shipton. And that’s just the Holborn office. MEC thought they were getting close but two months ago their informant got very nervous, worried someone had caught on to her . . .”

“Who was their informant?” I ask but I’m sure I know the answer.

“Fiona Miller,” Sherlock and Greg say at the same time.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock!” Greg explodes. “Just once, can you leave me the goddamn punch line?”

We all know the answer to that one.

“I’ve got to go. I’ll ring you later,” Greg says and hangs up.

“Thoughts?” Sherlock asks. He means do I want to hear his. I nod and he continues, “So where is our Ms. Miller?”

“Washburn said she’s on holiday in Portugal,” I point out. Nothing gets by me.

“I had a word with two of Fiona’s colleagues while you were busy chatting him up. She had lunch with them every day and she never said a word about Portugal. It is my experience that women –”

I raise one eyebrow and he changes the subject.

“She withdrew £500 at a cash machine in Brixton the day before she supposedly went on vacation.  Nothing on her credit card since and she hasn’t made any calls from her mobile. No record of her on any flights out of the UK in the past three weeks.”

So where the hell is she?

Sherlock grabs his coat and scarf from the chair and strides to the door. “Come, John. We have work to do.” I follow him. Because that’s what I do. It’s what I’ll always do. For as long as he lets me.

 

 

 ** _The part where it all goes sideways_** – Sherlock gives the cab driver an address in Brixton. Fiona Miller’s.

Her building is pre-war, sandwiched between a car repair and a dry cleaner. The small lobby is littered with out of date flyers and week-old newspapers. Sherlock climbs the narrow stairs ahead of me. The stairwell smells of trapped heat, burnt motor oil and menthol cigarettes.

I ring the doorbell. We should probably suss out if someone is home before we break in.

The apartment is tiny and reminds me of the bedsits I lived in during my training at Barts. It’s clean and freshly (if inexpertly) painted. A galley kitchen, the colour of ripe bananas, opens onto a lounge furnished in what are clearly thrift store finds. An old velveteen couch, a faded floral armchair, a battered coffee table. No TV. No laptop. Two baskets filled with travel books. A drooping African violet on the small kitchen table. Heavy blackout drapes at the windows.

The bathroom is empty. No one hiding behind the clear plastic shower curtain.

The bedroom is next to the lounge. A double bed, no bedspread, no sheets. I bend and look underneath. No murderers lurking there. A Victorian dresser sits heavily in one corner. I’m glad I’m not the one who had to carry that  monstrosity up three flights of stairs.  A poster for last year’s Van Gogh exhibit at the National Gallery is tacked to the wall over the bed.  

A worn copy of _The Cherry Orchard_ lies open on the night table. Chekhov? I pick it up and thumb through a few pages – God, how I hated that play. As a sixteen-year-old, I played Yasha in the world’s worst production of _The Cherry Orchard_. Secondary schools should stick to Shakespeare and Andrew Lloyd Webber. The experience put me off theatre for years.

While I continue to look around (I prefer to call it _seeing the big picture_ ) – Sherlock is down on his knees on the floor beside the bed peering through a magnifying glass.

“Until very recently, there was a rug here. Dark blue, unusually long fibres.”

I laugh. “It’s called shag.”

“Yes, well, it’s gone now.” He stands and takes a small spray bottle from his coat pocket. “Close the curtains, John.”

“Sherlock, tell me you’re not going to –”

“Close the curtains. Must I say please every time?”

“All right, all right. Hold on.”  

I pull the drapes closed and the room is black except for the green glow from the clock radio on the nightstand. He sprays the bed and a few seconds later, large splashes of bright blue luminescence appear in the centre. It only lasts a minute and the room is dark again. He sprays the floor beside the bed and there is a large ring of luminescence around a dark unlit centre. 

After the blue light fades, I open the drapes and blink against the late afternoon sun. “Theory?” I prompt. There’s always a theory.

“Fiona Miller was right to be worried. Someone at Shipton found out what she was doing, followed her home and killed her. On the bed from the looks of it. The pattern of the blood would support stabbing, most likely while she was lying down. The murderer wrapped her in the rug and carried out the body.”

“The _murderer_? Sounds vague. So where does our client fit into this theory of yours?”

Sherlock ignores me, pulls his mobile from his pocket and leaves the room. I stand beside the bed, trying to see what is obviously so clear to him.  Something niggles at the base of my brain. This case – it’s all so tidy, the clues helpfully lining up like actors taking a curtain call.

I hear Sherlock pronouncing his findings to Lestrade, and I pick up the book again, wondering how it could ever be considered bedtime reading. All that family angst . . . not to mention that interminable third act. As I put the play back on the nightstand, a small picture falls out of the pages and flutters to the floor.  

I stare at the picture on the floor.  It’s just like in the movies – those badly plotted, badly acted TV shows where the detective solves the case in the last ten minutes after wandering clueless through the first fifty.  Pictures and letters falling out of books and overheard conversations figure prominently. Mrs. Hudson is keen on them. I keep her company. The only thing missing here is the swell of violin music.

I take a tissue from the box on the dresser and pick up the picture. I stare at it, my brain stubbornly refusing to draw conclusions. Fiona Miller in a bikini. Palm trees. Fruity drinks with small umbrellas. Our client leaning across the table to kiss her. On the lips. I look behind me, to make sure Sherlock is still in the lounge. Because I want to find something on my own? Because I want to prove him wrong?  Because all men are ten-year-old boys at heart?

I sit on the bed and think. Charlotte Ivan is not Fiona’s sister, she’s her girlfriend.  Why does the name sound so familiar? _Charlotte Ivan . . . Charlotte Ivan . . ._ I wonder if this is how Sherlock feels when it happens to him – I can almost feel the gears in my brain clicking into place as it all comes together as the brilliant ending to a much better TV show where the angsty detectives are  never clueless and discover all the clues and all the murderers. _Charlotte Ivan . . . Charlotte Ivan . . . Charlotta Ivanovn_ a – the creepy governess in _The Cherry Orchard._

I pick up the book again and reread the inscription on the inside cover.

_To my Fiona . . . always onward and upward . . . your Charlotta_

Why would Charlotte lie and say that Fiona was her sister? She must have known Sherlock would check. And why would a girlfriend wait almost two weeks? If Sherlock didn’t show up for tea, I’d be out looking for him before bedtime. Unless . . . unless it’s all just a bit of theatre.  I slip the picture back into the book and Sherlock appears in the doorway.

“That bed is a crime scene, John.” He turns to leave.

I stand and set the book back on the nightstand. “That’s one theory.”

This stops Sherlock and I almost run into him. He turns back to me. “Hardly a theory. I’m just waiting on the Lestrade’s team to confirm.”

“I suppose.” I walk past him. “It’s one way to go.” I know he’ll follow me. I could lead him all the way home with my little comments. I could lead him down a dark alley, press him up against a wall and fuck the arrogant look off his face and he’d still want to know why I am questioning his almighty deduction.

Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to bump into me as I stop to let that particular image go. It would be so easy . . .

Sherlock takes my shoulders and spins me around. I really just want to tackle him to the floor. It’s become a problem – shagging in inappropriate venues. And the supposed murder scene of a supposed whistle blower is surely inappropriate.

“You don’t think Fiona Miller was murdered here?” he says.

I duck under his arms and walk to the apartment door. “I’m not convinced Fiona Miller was murdered anywhere. I think Fiona is exactly where Washburn says she is – on a beach in Portugal. Probably right now in the company of one Charlotta Ivanovna _aka_ Charlotte Ivan _aka_ . . .” and this is where I make a spectacular leap based on little more than a hunch . . . “Mrs. Maureen Washburn.”

Sherlock looks stunned and I wish I knew where the closest alley was  . . .

**_It ends like this_ ** – The streets are empty at this hour. Sherlock’s window is rolled down and the air blowing through the cab is damp and cool, and smells of something I can’t place. I ask him and he says, “It’s the city breathing, John.”

I follow him up the stairs and into the flat. What I need is sleep, but what I want is company. He says, “I need to get out of these clothes,” and disappears into the bedroom. A minute later I hear the shower running and I resist the urge to join him. I understand him well enough to know when to leave him be.  

I retrieve the half-empty bottle of Jameson from the kitchen, rinse two glasses and set them on the table beside Sherlock’s chair.  I fill my glass, sink into my chair and wait for Sherlock.

I was right about most of it. There are still some details to work out but the basic facts are these: six months ago, Fiona Miller, the over-educated, under-employed assistant to the Shipton Building Society controller , approached the  Major Economic Crimes Unit and told them she suspected that Washburn was setting up dummy corporations and then approving mortgages for them. MECU was working with Fiona to build a solid case before arresting Washburn. Two months ago, Fiona auditioned for a local production of _The Cherry Orchard_ where she met Maureen Washburn, the bored wife of a boring banker who was auditioning for the part of Charlotta. They fell in love and according to Maureen (picked up by police at Gatwick while waiting for the next flight to Lisbon), Fiona warned her that Gordon was about to be arrested. Around the same time, Fiona backed off from the investigation, telling police that she thought Washburn suspected her.

Together, they made a plan. Fiona would go on holiday and Maureen would report her missing after two weeks. Before Fiona left, they set up the crime scene at her apartment together. Maureen would meet two weeks later in Portugal. Knowing Washburn’s assets would be seized when he was arrested, they planned to live off love and Maureen’s small inheritance from her grandmother. Life was less expensive there. The police, already suspecting Washburn of extortion, would also charge him with Fiona’s murder. And to be sure that everything went according to plan, Maureen hired Sherlock Holmes and scattered crouton-sized bread crumbs for him to follow. Cue the happily ever after music.

_Easy peasy lemon squeezy_

Sherlock reappears in a pair of silk pajamas and a silkier robe. As he rounds my chair on the way to his, he nicks my glass of whiskey and turns, draining the glass in front of me, his head back, throat exposed. I am suddenly hot and close my eyes for a minute. This is going to be a long night. The silk on silk alone would have tipped it off, but the sharing of a drinking glass is near the top of the list of things Sherlock will not do.

“Nice shower?”

Sherlock slides into his chair, staring at me, holding the glass in his fingers. He leans up and hands it back to me.

“Cheers.” I get up and retrieve the bottle and the other glass.

Sherlock steeples his fingers and sighs. I walk over to him and nudge his knees, holding out the glass.

“Attempting to get me drunk, John?” Sherlock’s eyebrow rises.

I can’t tell yet which Sherlock Holmes this is. It’s a fair bet I’ll either be out on the street or arse up over the coffee table in a matter of minutes. I choose caution. It’s cold out.

“Thought we could both use a drink.” I pour myself three fingers.

Sherlock looks at me over the rim of his glass. “Feeling triumphant?”

“Hardly. Although I am happy my brief career in the theatre didn’t go to waste.” I’m also happy to see Sherlock’s faint smile as he sips the whiskey. But there’s something else there. Do I search for it or leave it alone? It’s a constant question.

“Hungry?” I ask.

Sherlock  continues to stare.

“I could eat.” I look around the room. “Takeaway? Indian? Maybe Taj Mahal?”

Sherlock sets his glass down and leans forward. “You’re fidgety.”

“I’m hungry.”

Sherlock leans back. “Yes –to the victor goes the spoils and all that.”

Out on the street is looking like a front runner. “Not much of a victory though. It was a shite case.”

“A shite case that you managed to solve despite my inept attempts.”

I frown. I hate this Sherlock. “I’m supposed to feel sorry for you now? Just because I picked up on some subtle details that you missed?”

“Yes, details. Details are my . . .”

“If you say purview I might throw this glass at you.”

“Admit it John. Under all that congenial, soldiers-in-arms bluster, you must be feeling a bit, oh I don’t know, superior.”

I stand. One, because I am truly hungry and if I don’t order some food, this is going to turn into a toss over the coffee table and not in a good way. And two, because I know he’s baiting me and I need room to think.

“Once in a while you are allowed to miss a detail. And once in a very great while, I am allowed to figure something out. Balance of probability, right? Isn’t that what you always say?”

“That’s what Mycroft always says.”

I dig my phone out of my pocket and push a cup and a file off the menu for Taj Mahal. “Well, if that’s not the cherry on the top of this day. I’m now quoting Mycroft.” I shake the menu at him. “Last chance. Order or shut it.”

Sherlock ignores me. It’s what he does. I quickly order enough food for both of us. I know the minute I don’t, I will surely be accused of trying to starve him to death. I toss the menu back on the pile and go into the kitchen to get plates.

“How did you do it?” Sherlock is suddenly next to me. His hand brushes my shoulder as he reaches around me to get a glass.

“Do what?”

He turns and leans against the sink, legs crossed. I stand in front of him.

“The connection to the play I understand,” he says. “You know my methods, after all, something has surely rubbed off.”

“Surely.” I set the plates behind me and wonder if I can shag him silent before the tikka masala arrives. I lean against the table and cross my arms. Ready for battle.

“But the connection with Washburn’s wife.  That was  . . .”

“Brilliant is the word I believe you are looking for – a brilliant deduction.” I step closer to his perplexed face. “Even we mortals can score one once in a while.”

Sherlock frowns.

“Oh come on Sherlock. It’s just human nature. People only do really crazy things for two reasons. Love and hate. Love being the primary motivation for most things, until it turns to hate, right?”

Sherlock makes a move to leave and I grab his shoulders and keep him still. “When _you_ see the world, you see crime and murder and intricate machinations that only need to be deduced to be solved. But sometimes what you don’t see is under all those machinations are the motives. And under those motives are the true motives. Love or hate. Usually both.”

Sherlock dips his head and sucks on my bottom lip. I press against him and cup my hand around his neck. He pulls me closer and slides his tongue into my mouth. He also knows how to shut me up. Just when I am about to pull him to the floor, he releases my mouth, his hands on my shoulders.

“Your explanations are tedious.” He leans down and nuzzles my neck. “And they are wildly inaccurate.”

I pull away. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Money is also a strong motivator. As is jealousy, grief, anger . . . shall I go on?”

The doorbell stops my not very well thought out response and he slides past me to the door. I stand in the kitchen, still breathing hard, wondering if I can eat with a hard on. He is back in a minute, two bags of food in his hands.

“You paid?” I don’t know what I am more surprised at. He paid, or he went to the door, or he just snaked a samosas out of the bag and popped it whole into his mouth.

I walk forward and take the bags from him. As I set them on the table I feel him press against me, one hand pushing up through my hair, his lips sucking on my neck. I grab the table with both hands and my head falls back as he reaches around and slides his fingers down my shirt, twisting a nipple.

I gasp and my knees almost buckle as he slips his other hand under my belt, and down my pants, almost reaching my cock, straining against all the fabric.

“Jesus,” I manage before he releases me, turns me around, and continues his assault, kissing me hard on the lips, slipping his tongue into my mouth, now tasting of curry and spices and I claw at his shirt and he swats my hands away and rips my shirt open, dips his head and sucks on a nipple.

My ass is pressed against the table and I lift a bit and he pushes me onto it, taking one hand to sweep away everything, including the already forgotten tikka masala, onto the floor. He is relentless, roughly tugging my belt open, unzipping my trousers and shoving them down my legs. I struggle to get a better position on the table and he takes my cock in his mouth and my head falls back, hitting a saucer and the sugar bowl. I reach up, trying to bat them away and Sherlock reaches up and grabs my hand, entwining our fingers as he slides my cock in and out of his mouth. I squeeze his hand hard and my other hand reaches for his head. My legs are trapped in my trousers and pinned against Sherlock so all I can do is lift my ass as he takes my cock all the way to the hilt, sucking and scraping his teeth gently as his lips squeeze against the shaft. I bang my head again on the table, lost somewhere between coming and dying and I feel the vibration as Sherlock begins to growl against my cock and I can’t see anything and I can only feel the waves as I come in his mouth.

 

 

After an eternity, Sherlock falls back onto his arse and I feel my legs dangling over the edge of the table. The air hits my cock, still twitching and I’m not sure whether to roll off, or just stay there forever.

Sherlock makes a small noise and I roll my head to the right, and watch as he takes his cock in his hand, rolling his fingers over the tip, looking at me, his eyes dark, cloudy. Wanting.

I am almost hard again. Almost. I manage to kick off my trousers and roll to the right and off the table. I land on my feet (almost) and tumble next to Sherlock, who has his back pressed against my chair, his legs splayed, his cock hard.

I get between his legs and move his hand off his cock and finger his balls and he rewards me with the same growl. I bend my head and flick my tongue over his swollen tip and he reaches out and threads his fingers through my hair, pulling me down onto his cock. I take it in, sucking and licking and I reach up his shirt and twist his nipple. He presses my head harder and I rake my teeth up his shaft. He moves a bit and braces his hands on either side of his hips and thrusts upward with the same rhythm as I am sucking him.

After a minute I can hear his low moan become more frantic and he arches his back and freezes as he yanks his cock out of my mouth and rolls to the left, coming in waves on his silk robe. I reach down and join him, three good strokes and I am over the edge again, ramming my head into his chest until the chair almost tips.

 

 

“Still hungry.” His voice comes to me through a fog. I open one eye and realize I am staring at his bare knee. Sometime during, he must have slipped out of that blasted silk. I reach up and run a finger along his very quiet cock. He brushes my hand away.

“Not even for you, John.” Sherlock pulls at my shoulders and I reluctantly crawl my way up his body until my head is tucked into his chest. He wraps a long leg around my ass. Sighs and absently strokes my nipple.

“Not even for you, Sherlock.”

We stay that way for a few more moments.

“And you owe me a shirt. And dinner.” I look over to see the spilled containers of curry and rice mixed with a specimen cup and a fork. One pristine samosa is tilted precariously on the edge of the table. I stretch and nudge the leg of the table with my foot.  I sit up and catch it before it hits the ground and pop into my mouth.

_John: 2_

_Sherlock:  0_

 

Not that we’re keeping score.

 


End file.
